Stay
by Broken-Latin
Summary: Sherlock suddenly reenters John's life and leaves just as quickly. Post-Reichenbach reunion. Johnlock


Stay

Sherlock froze outside the door of 221B. There were voices inside. John. His John. God, just hearing that voice was so wonderful, a breath of fresh air in his smog-filled life. He pressed his ear against the door, trying to distinguish the other familiar tone. He wasn't above eavesdropping. Mycroft. That was it. Never in his life, had Sherlock Holmes thought he would miss his elder brother, but here he was, with a slight urge to hug the man.

He reached for the doorknob, but pulled away. He couldn't do this. He couldn't just burst in there and act like he hadn't been gone for three years. But he had to see John. He _had_ to.

Sherlock turned the knob and stepped inside. The conversation in the room came to a sudden halt. "John." The man made no response, only looking between Sherlock and Mycroft. "John," he tried again, hoping his words weren't trembling as bad as he thought they were. A horrible idea struck him-Did John not recognize him? Had his voice and face faded in his mind? Had he moved on? "Don't you remember me?"

John turned away from the man, a pained expression on his face. "Do you see him too?"

Mycroft's lips were pressed into a thin line. "Quite so." Mycroft was no idiot—he could see that Sherlock wasn't there to talk to him. As John met Sherlock's eyes, he slunk out of the room. He could speak with his brother later.

Tears welled up in John's eyes and they slipped down his face, as he was unable to hold them back any longer. "Sh—Sherlock. . ."

"John," the detective murmured, running to him. This was too much for his mind to process. He collapsed to his knees in front of his flatmate. He buried his head in the man's lap. There was so much left to say. There were so many emotions. John seemed to be experiencing the same sensation: he too was speechless. The man just wove his fingers into Sherlock's curls, shaking.

"I was so worried about you," John choked.

Sherlock looked up. "I'm so sorry. But I had to do it. Please believe me."

A tear rolled off of John's chin and onto his chest. He didn't care to wipe it away. "I always believed in you."

Sherlock's heart pulled at that. After all that time, John hadn't lost his faith in him. For the first time since returning, he really looked at him. His eyes were red with bags underneath from a lack of sleep. Was he to blame? He stopped and crawled onto the chair, which was too small for the both of them to fit on, but neither minded.

"There's so much to tell you," Sherlock whispered in his ear softly.

"Then say it."

Sherlock took a breath to ready himself for the explanation. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you—that's why I had to do it; so that Moriarty wouldn't hurt you. I never wanted to make you suffer.

John pulled the man close to him. "It's alright," he said, stroking the man's back gently. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."

Sherlock's stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. "I can't stay, John."

"What? Of course you can."

Sherlock pulled back. "No. If I stay, I'll be putting you in danger. I can't do that." John fell limp. "I can't let you get hurt." John didn't respond. Sherlock climbed off of him and walked to the window, looking out.

After a short while of silence had passed, John said, "Do you understand how hard I is to love someone and see them die?" No reply came. "Not only that, but when you finally know that that someone is alive, they say they're just going to leave you again?" Silence. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a moment for those words to sink in. He wanted so badly to tell John that he loved him too. He wanted to stay. But he couldn't. He had to go. If he told him he loved him, it would only be harder for both of them when he was gone. "Don't bother loving me, John." The words tasted wrong to him as they came off his tongue. "All those things people say about me—that I'm a machine—they're right. And machines can't love."

"I don't believe that," John said without hesitation.

"You should."

"I won't."

There was a hush over them for a minute. Sherlock couldn't look at John, but he wanted to be close to him. He just couldn't bring himself to look at the disappointment that was sure to be in his eyes. He made his way to John's chair, keeping his back to his man as he lay down at his feet.

"Why did you even come here tonight?"

"It was a mistake. I had to see you. I didn't think about how much it would hurt you when I left."

A hand stroked Sherlock's hair. He didn't lean into the touch as he wanted. That could only make it worse. Anything he did to show any form of affection would make leaving harder. "It wasn't a mistake. I needed you. . . But I'll still need you when you're gone."

"I'm sorry. I should have considered that before. I'm going to hurt you again, aren't I?"

"Yes." That one word came out as a shaky sob.

Sherlock couldn't handle hearing that. He had never seen nor heard John cry. He'd never even hear his voice rise an octave from sadness. Except that day—that hellish day when he'd jumped. Sherlock sighed. "One night couldn't hurt."

"You'll stay?" John asked, his voice perking up a bit through the sobs.

"Only one night, John."

The doctor's strong arms pulled Sherlock up, coaxing him onto the chair. "That's all I need." He held him close, not willing to let go.

They spent the evening as they normally would: watching the news, drinking tea, and laughing about old crime scenes. But an unspoken sense of sadness still covered the room like smog. Neither one wanted to night to end.

"It's late," Sherlock said. "Sleep."

"Not without you."

Sherlock nodded to him, standing from his chair. "Of course." He followed the man to John's familiar, tidy bedroom. John found some pajamas for himself and got into the bed, Sherlock following him.

"I love you," John murmured as they lay there in the darkness, John's arm around Sherlock to keep him close.

Sherlock gave into temptation, saying the words that had to be said. "I love you too, John."

Soon the soldier was asleep. Sherlock was alone with his thoughts. With a kiss to John's forehead, he stood and left.

John's eyes opened to the sight of an empty bed. Had it all been just another dream? No. There on the edge of the bed was a familiar blue scarf. Sherlock's scarf. He'd really been there. And he'd really left again.

There was nothing that John could do. The tremors began and the tears started flowing. He held the scarf, taking in the scent of Sherlock Holmes. There was no way to go back into denial now.

Sherlock Holmes, be it dead or alive, was gone.

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Thank you!

Okay. First off: I'm sorry. I want to slap myself for doing this. As I type, I'm reconsidering posting. Seriously, _another_ Reichenbach reunion? I'm sorry, ya'll.

And, just to let you know, you can blame someone else on this, too. If it weren't for my fantastic John, who is Prisoner-of-the-Hunger-Games on tumblr. This is based on an RP, and she was my brilliant John. Without her, a lot of the Sherlock fics I write wouldn't come about.

I do not own Sherlock or any of the fantastic characters.


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